Page 39 of The Shattered Rite
The steward gathered himself with effort, clearing his throat.
“Of the twenty who entered the first trial,” he said, his voice echoing around the high stone walls, “ten remain.”
A beat.
He did not name the dead. He didn’t have to. Their absence was already a wound stitched into the room.
“They were found… shredded. Torn limb from limb. One body was barely recovered.” A pause. “The Undermine was not kind.”
The tall boy with copper hair clutched his ribs, wincing. The older warrior merely nodded, stone-faced. The other woman looked down at her bloodied hands, expression unreadable.
The steward’s voice cut through again, less steady now.
“The second trial will begin in two days. You will be given a place to rest until then. Rebuild what you can.”
She almost laughed. Almost.
Rebuild what? A soul? A sense of purpose?
He hesitated—just a second too long—before adding, “Survival is not victory. It is only permission to continue.”
And with that, he turned and fled.
Smart man,Vaeronth murmured.
When the heavy doors closed behind him, the hush did not lift. It only thickened. The steward had barely vanished into the shadows beyond the hall when a wave of guards arrived.
Steel echoed against stone—guards entering in tight formation, armor dull with soot and ash, each carrying a set of glowing manacles etched with faint runes. They were notweapons, not chains of brute force—they were bindings of obedience, pulsing with soft blue magic that shimmered like captured breath.
The room tensed.
The guards stepped forward one at a time, each saying a name heavy with expectancy.
“Stormthresh.”
The tall woman with blood on her hands rose to her feet, stepping forward from the injured body on the ground. The guard locked the cuffs around her wrists without a word. She flinched as they clicked into place, a small shudder running through her.
“Tarn’s Hill.” The copper boy.
“Stonefell.” The older warrior stepped forward without hesitation.
“Whitvale.” A slender figure slipped past her, not a speck of blood marring his expensive-looking tunic.
One after another, the names were spoken—village names, not personal ones—and the chosen moved toward the guards. None resisted, though several struggled to stand and walk. The bindings glowed brighter once affixed, sealing themselves with magic finality.
The air in the hall grew tighter with every set.
The final guard approached Eliryn slowly, gaze hidden behind his helm. His steps were careful- measured in a way none of the others had been.
Then, loudly, for all to hear:
“Dragonrider.”
The title dropped like a guillotine.
Every head turned.
Every breath caught.
